


Embers

by FlatlandDan



Series: Burning Bright [5]
Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mental Health Issues, PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-29
Updated: 2013-03-29
Packaged: 2017-12-06 21:20:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/740285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FlatlandDan/pseuds/FlatlandDan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The package arrives into the SHIELD sorting office nearly a year later.  There is nothing distinct about it, just a large cardboard box addressed to Clint Barton, The Avengers, New York, New York.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Embers

**Author's Note:**

> I know I promised that the next bit would be the last bit, but in true Avengers fashion I am a lying liar who lies. At least one, possibly two more bits. Thank you all for your patience and enjoy!
> 
> Thanks to Allochthon for the speedy beta :)

The package arrives into the SHIELD sorting office nearly a year later. There is nothing distinct about it, just a large cardboard box addressed to Clint Barton, The Avengers, New York, New York. The point of mailing is enough to get it raised a few notches though, the Serbian postmarks setting off automated emails as soon as it’s entered into the system.

It arrives on Nick Fury’s desk six hours later and he ignores it for another day until Phil Coulson is sitting across from him, the package sat between them like the ticking time bomb it is.

“What does security say is inside?” Phil asks, not taking his eyes off the package.

“Paper. We scanned it for everything we could think of, but it’s just paper.” Nick leans back in his chair, his hands peaked and resting in front of his nose. “I was going to destroy it, but then I realised it wasn’t my call to make.”

“And you think it’s mine?” Phil asks him quickly.

“Yours or Barton’s. I just figured I’d make the safe choice and bring it to you first.”

“He’s doing better,” Phil says after a moment.

“I keep tabs on him myself. He may not be SHIELD anymore, but I sleep better knowing he’s well.”

“I said better, not well.” Phil’s voice is sharp and Nick falls quiet, eyes still on the box. Better is sleeping through the nights, eating soup again and becoming bomb proof in the field once again. Well would be if he didn’t shake through it all, a barely perceptible tremor that is a sign that Clint is simply trying his best to keep it all together. Well would be if Phil didn’t know he came undone when he was left alone, spending hours looking up at the sky playing with his matchbox and asking questions that break Phil’s heart when he reviews the footage.

“You know best.” Fury gently pushes the package towards Phil and nods his head, picking up the StarkPad in front of him and resuming reading. Phil knows a dismissal when he’s sees it but he still can’t bring himself to pick up the package. “Phil, Barton is running on faith right now, faith in you and faith in whatever God he’s found. I think he was better when he ran on faith in himself.”

Phil picks up the package and walks out. He doesn’t walk far, just down the hall to the office that’s still his despite the fact he spends more of his time at Avengers Tower liaising then he does here. Right now, it’s a room with a lock that he’s pretty sure Tony Stark doesn’t monitor and that’s exactly what he needs. He doesn’t rush into it, just makes himself a cup of crappy instant coffee using the kettle he keeps in his filing cabinet and sits there for a long time as the coffee cools. There is no need for him to hide that he’s opened the package when he does it (of course he would have opened the package before passing it on) so his just cuts along one edge and lets the contents fall out.

“I’ll be damned.”

He leafs through the pages in front of him, looking at each one in turn. Even without speaking a word of Serbian he knows what these are and when he finishes an hour later he’s made up his mind.

* * *  
Clint doesn’t know how to deal with the concept of Christmas until it’s nearly Thanksgiving. No one asks, the team can be surprisingly tactful when they want to be, but he knows they’ve gotten and turned down a request to be in the parade this year. Thanksgiving itself seems like a trial run, with mounds of food. The end result of petty arguments about how to cook yams and potatoes. The day before he gets Phil to drive him two hours north to find wild cranberries, driving down side roads until they’re both shivering in the headlights at dusk picking enough for him to make cranberry sauce for everyone. They stop off for coffee at a gas station and sitting across from each other, Clint can convince himself that this is all normal. He dreams that night of making cranberry sauce in a mountain house, his mother telling him to add more orange juice before morphing into Grandma Maria, chiding him for being wasteful as the blood starts pouring down her chest. He wakes with his heart pounding after barely an hour of sleep and naps fitfully for most of the day, curled up against Tasha on the couch in the main living room. He doesn’t miss that Phil looks stressed and that Tony and Steve seem to be on a two man crusade to distract him with cooking. He squeezes his way into the kitchen, commandeers a burner, and makes his mothers wild cranberry sauce about two. The kitchen clears and it’s just him and Phil, moving silently around the room.

“Alright?” Phil asks him quietly, bumping his shoulder as he peels potatoes next to Clint.

“Yeah.” He doesn’t know how to articulate that even though it hurts, this whole damn concept of family, he’s ok with that now. He’s ok that he thinks of how much dead people would love this because he knows that this living family they’ve found will love it as well. Phil is frowning at him though, and that’s something he needs to change. “I’ll cheer up if you do?”

“Finish making your cranberry sauce, Eeyore.” Phil tells him with a laugh and god, Clint loves that he can still make him smile so easily, that it’s still within his capabilities to make Phil happy.

They don’t do the ‘what are you thankful for question thing’, but Clint hopes everyone knows that he’s thankful for them as they watch the parade over stacked up plates and through half lidded eyes.

 * * *

“When are we getting a tree?” It’s December 5th and they’re all eating waffles, despite the fact that it’s 7 pm. While statistically bad guys don’t get up early in the morning, time zones mean that sometimes breakfast gets left on the table. Or, in this case, waffle batter in the fridge. It’s breakfast somewhere in the world, Bruce had remarked cheerfully as he’d starting making dinner.

“Ahhh....soon. Yeah, when should we go and pick one out?” Tony is keyed up, the way he always is after a successful mission. “Agent, when are we all free next?”

Phil has changed into his sweatpants and is helping duct tape an ice pack to Tasha’s shoulder, but he still finds a way of reaching over to grab his Starkpad and look at the calendar that combines all their schedules into one dizzying display.

“Friday between 10am and noon” he announces before tearing another strip of tape with his teeth.

“We’re going to need a really big tree,” Steve says thoughtfully, eyeing the living room through the door while shoving some of his post-mission metabolism necessary cheerios into his mouth. Bruce moves the box towards Thor and replaces it with the first of the pancakes. “We could get lots of little trees as well, for our rooms. Have a tour of trees!” His face lights up at the thought and Clint wonders if this is all going to be a bit much even as he finds himself nodding along. Phil just rolls his eyes and taps a few notes into the calendar.

It takes them the full two hours to pick out seven trees and three trips to bring them all back to the tower. Tony mumbles that he could just just paid to have them delivered but he’s right in next to them, helping tie the trees down onto the roof of Phil’s SHIELD suburban. Tony only has decorations for the main tree and going out in New York for shopping right now is insane, but a bit of online shopping later and boxes start showing up with Clint’s name on them. Lots of boxes.

“More decorations?” Tasha teases him as she delivers another few small boxes to his apartment.

“I’ve gone for an eclectic look with a theme,” he tells her, positioning himself between the door and the tree even as she tries to peer over his shoulder. He hip checks her, she trips him onto his ass and a minute later they are both giggling on the ground in choke holds. He releases first, knowing that she won’t, and she sticks her tongue out at him before straightening and heading down the hall with a laugh.

His tree is covered with birds. Every damn bird ornament he could find online and a few that Phil found in the shops. It was only the day before that Phil had come bustling into his rooms, arms full of bags full of gifts for nieces he never got to see and a big thrift store dove perched on the top. Because taking care of you has taken him away from them, his mind supplies, even as he reaches to rescue the bird.

“Do you like him? I wasn’t sure.” Phil’s face is creased with worry, a look that has replaced his frowns from a month before. Clint isn’t sure which expression he prefers (the one on Phil’s face just before he wakes up and sees the mess he’s still living in) but he this one seems more real.

“He’s great. Peace. We’re all about peace here, right?” Clint smooths the tail feathers of the bird and wraps the wire at it’s feet around his finger. Phil is still watching him, still judging his response, and Clint wants desperately to let him know that it’s alright. He wants to ask Phil if he’s seeing a psychiatrist, to let him know that really, Clint is ok now. He wants to tell Phil that he doesn’t have to rescue every bird he sees in a thrift store because he couldn’t get Clint out.

“I’ve gotta drop these off, but I’ll come back in a bit. We have to finish the Scotland paperwork before Friday or the Yard will block our access again.”

“You’re using your Agent Coulson voice again.” Clint tells him, unwinding the wire from his finger. The moment has passed and he's missed his chance again. Phil is smiling a bland smile and Clint is giving him a snarky reply and things are back to business and he's missed his chance.

The door is physically and metaphorically shutting.

* * *

Tasha lets him in and onto her couch without a word, letting him curl around himself, his knees and his thoughts. Her tree has never been a secret, with it's beautiful burgundy and beige theme of bows, candles, popcorn and cranberry strings. He's particularly fond on the candles, the bright light draws him in and comforts him as he sprawls on the couch listening as Tasha makes coffee for them both. It reminds him of the church on the hill (it reminds him of a lifetime ago) and it makes him quietly pleased to realise he's ok with that.

She leans against him, her feet bracketing his and her chin resting on his knees. The candlelight plays across her eyes and her smile, a smile that he can't help but slightly return.

"To what do I owe this visit?"

"I'm worried about Phil."

"Good," she says with a smile.

"How is that good?"

"It means you're seeing the big picture again, even off duty. I wasn't sure you'd manage that."

"The only big picture I'm seeing is that I'm wrecking his life."

"You're not."

"I am." Clint interrupts her, meeting her gaze. She still smiling, but her smile has gone softer, the way it does when she's disappointed in him but understands it's just because he's Clint and sometimes relationships are awkward. "Everyone thinks we're sleeping together."

"You are sleeping together, most nights."

"You know what I mean."

"Don't get snappy with me, Clint." Still smiling, but her eyes have gone hard and he thinks he's pushed it before they soften. "You used to sleep with him, before."

Clint shrugs. He had slept with Phil like that before, the last time when they had both been full of residual terror and energy in New Mexico and so damn grateful to be alive. It had never been anything flashy, with dates and displays of affection, but it was the most real and stable thing he'd ever had. It had been kisses against his mobile armoury in the rain because they were pretty sure the god of thunder had been sprung by a scientist and that deserved a celebration.

"It's changed." He whispered to her.

"Why?"

"How could it not?" It's her turn to shrug, using his own method of deflection against him. "He treats me like I'm a glass ornament that'll break."

"Because some of the time, you still are. Sometimes you don't sleep, sometimes you don't answer us, or you whisper names to yourself and sometimes you keep your hands in your pockets."

"I'm trying."

"So is he. You know he died? Spent five weeks in hospital and in an out of surgery? Do you know the first question he asked was where the hell you were and why wasn't I out covering your back?"

"We...we've not really talked about it." Clint stammers out.

"You've both kept your secrets? Why am I not surprised."

"I told him I didn't want to talk about it. He read the report anyhow, typed it out."

"You lied in that report," she tells him flatly.

"I didn't."

"Lies by omission are still lies. That report read as hard, not devastating, and you came back from that mountain hollow. Small wonder he's worried." She leans back and reaches over to push down the carafe of coffee and pour them both a cup. "You get this cup off coffee, and this little bit of peace, but as soon as it's finished you are having that conversation."

* * *

Everyone is too polite to mention that Clint carries the same half filled mug of coffee for four days, but Natasha rolls her eyes and Bruce offers to wash it up and Tony keeps pushing new cups into his hands. Phil just smiles as Clint finally washes it up and fills it, resting it and a refill for Phil on one of the few paper free spaces on his coffee table. He shoves over as Clint flops down next to him and they both sit quietly under the glow in front of them. Clint’s tree is a glittery monstrosity, full of brightly coloured little lights, a wonderful mix of new and old and clashing colours with the birds perched on every branch. On top of the tree the dove takes flight, it's wings framed by the skylight far above it. Clint wants them both to be free.

"I don't think it can take many more decorations." Phil tells him, his voice mock serious. Clint huffs and rests his head against Phil's shoulder.

"I want to talk."

"What about?"

"Everything we should have a year ago. If that's ok with you." Clint can feel Phil clear his throat, feels him bend his head so that rests against his own.

"I'd like that."


End file.
